


The Turtle and the Star

by Vera (Vera_DragonMuse)



Series: Always Been a Pencil [8]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:13:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25120693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_DragonMuse/pseuds/Vera
Summary: Jon meets Tormund around the same time he discovers his true parentage. It takes him some time to work through what both mean for his future.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Ygritte, Tormund Giantsbane/Jon Snow
Series: Always Been a Pencil [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1337353
Comments: 38
Kudos: 140





	The Turtle and the Star

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline-wise, this story moves the clock back a few years after the previous few in the series. It takes place during Sweet Summer Child, roughly five years before we see Jon in 'The Princess and the Scoundrel'.

_Listen, Little Crow. A thousand years ago there was a turtle. An ordinary enough turtle to the untrained eye. He went about his turtle life, eating, shitting, and fucking other turtles. Until a giant bird saw him and thought, ‘ah, this turtle will be my lunch’ and swooped down. It knocked the turtle onto his back, but before it could make a meal of him, a wolf came out of the forest and ate the bird up instead._

_But now the turtle was on his back, looking up at the sky and for the first time in his whole turtle life, he can see the stars. Right above his head is the brightest one and the turtle felt something. He called up to that bright star, “I love you!”, and the star seemed to twinkle back._

_The turtle’s turtle friends found him the next morning and got him back on his feet before he could tell them to stop. He was back on the ground, and he couldn’t see the star at all. But he knew it was there and from that day forward, he wasn’t just a turtle. He was a seeker. Looking for the night sky. For his star. And isn’t that the thing, Little Crow? You’re changed once you see the star..._

“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Ygritte had told him as the grey dawn painted them black and white. There were scratch marks on both their skins, a carnage of debris around his room both from the fight, it’s fallout, and the following bedding. 

“Okay,” he said numbly, his hand still locked in hers. 

“I love you,” she brought their joined hands to her mouth, kissed his knuckles, “but it’s not fun like this.” 

“I know,” the words scraped out of his throat. “I love you too.” 

He did love her, would always love her, but even he could admit to a certain kind of relief that they weren’t going to try to fit together like that anymore. They had been good together when they were good, but cruel to each other when it had been bad. Jon found himself lying, something he’d never done in abundance before, just to save them from dashing themselves on the rocks of arguments. 

He’d figured they’d be gone out of each other’s lives after that, as distant as stars that could still see each other’s light, but Ygritte was determined in this as in all things. 

“Come drinking with me tonight,” she’d demand and he’d drive up past the ancient remains of the Wall to the college town that few King’s Landing residents even knew existed, let alone attended. 

They would have a drink and talk about their lives. It was comfortable in a way he hadn’t expected and he fell in love all over again with the way she would tease him and put her arm around his shoulders. 

Sometimes her friend Yara would be there and Jon liked her a lot too. It was an undemanding company, these two women with sharp tongues and calloused hands, who were happy to amuse each other and fold him in along with them as long as they were allowed to tease and poke at him. It reminded him of the better days growing up, the times he managed to feel like a real Stark for a little while. 

So when Ygritte called him and said, “Come up this weekend. One of my advisers is going to teach us broadswords. You’ll love it.” 

He’d said yes without thinking. Gave Ghost a good extra scratch, filled his bowl and headed out. If the dog really wanted out, he was capable of opening the sliding glass door in the living room. The drive was pretty. It was mid-summer, as warm as it was likely to get. Jon rolled the windows down, the crisp breeze ruffling through his hair. 

Ygritte’s apartment door was propped open, her roommate in the kitchen unloading groceries. 

“Hey,” Jon greeted the woman, her name never stuck in his head. 

“Mhm,” the woman muttered, eyes on her groceries. 

“Hey, Jon,” Ygritte called from the other room, “I’ll be out in a second.” 

When she emerged it was in a chain-mail shirt and wearing some kind of metal armbands. 

“Where was this outfit hiding?” 

“Not mine,” Ygritte grinned. “I had to borrow some pieces so I could play test dummy. Might get a few of my own if we keep doing these kinds of things.” 

She explained as they headed out to the campus that her advisor specialized in Free Folk history, particularly their weaponry. He was also the advisor to the campus reenactment club which occasionally joined up with the regional group to put on displays. 

“And since my dissertation is on early battle strategy, it works out really,” she led him onto a grassy quad where a few other people were already gathered in various stages of armor over t-shirts and jeans. 

“Look at this motley crew,” a voice boomed out. The man was enormous, tall and broad with a great big bushy beard the color of a pumpkin and another shock of it sticking almost straight up from his head. But he was smiling at the gathered assembly. “Now where’s that woman that puts you all to shame?” 

“Do you mean me?” Ygritte called out, jogging to cross the field. 

“There she is!” The man nodded approvingly. “Let’s show the rest of these newcomers what we’re about.” 

There were two blades, the real thing as far as Jon could tell, though someone had carefully wrapped them so the cutting edges were only a suggestion of a threat. Ygritte wielded hers easily, dancing around and around him while the man moved with deliberate slowness. As the speed picked up and the gathered crowd oohed and ahh’d, Ygritte began to struggle a little. Eventually, the man called a halt and she dropped her blade with a huff. 

“We don’t know all the forms they would’ve used,” the man boomed, reaching into a bag and pulling out wooden practice swords, the kind Jon had seen given to children, but made much larger, “but we know they made the blades heavy enough that you needed both hands and strength. They battled until someone was bloodied or too tired to go on. Endurance. Strength. Speed, if you could manage it, would get you far.” 

Jon stood a little out of the way, watching the instruction unfold. Ygritte was in her element, getting to bark orders and using her sword to correct bad positioning. Eventually, the man’s eyes landed on Jon. 

“Who’s this?” 

“Jon Snow,” he offered before Ygritte had to interrupt what she was doing to respond. “I hope it’s alright if I watch. Ygritte invited me.” 

“Of course it’s not all right if you watch,” the man barked and Jon sighed, readying himself for some kind of power play. Instead a wooden sword came flying at his head. He grabbed it by the hilt in surprise. “There’s no observation, only participation.” 

“I’m not a student here,” Jon squared his feet out of old habit. Ancient lessons with Robb and some moldering teacher, who only allowed the bastard in for want of a body for Robb to fight. They had had a lot of fun though. 

“Do you want to learn?” 

“Yes,” Jon said, a little surprised to find that he did. 

“Pick up your blade, Snow.” 

Jon remembered more than he thought, even if it didn’t all translate over to the two-handed blade. He wasn’t particularly strong, though he tried hard to keep himself in shape, but he did have endurance and speed. He pretty much walked for a living when he wasn’t doing paperwork and when he wasn’t walking, he ran. 

“Good, good,” he was praised by his unexpected teacher, even as he brought down a bone rattling blow that Jon barely managed to block. “There’s a swordsman in you, Snow.” 

“Is there?” He was breathing hard now, but pleased with the effort and the way his arms were only shaking a little. 

“If you push him, he’ll fall over!” Ygritte called out. 

“I will not,” Jon huffed. “Some friend you are!” 

“I’m a great friend!” 

“I see I’m in the middle of something,” the man huffed and finally dropped his sword from one hand long enough to hold out to shake. Jon did, unsurprised that hand enveloped his own, “Tormund Giantsbane.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Jon smiled at him, “even if I’m going to be black and blue.” 

“Bruises are good for you,” Tormund grinned. It was a wide friendly kind of thing. “A little pain reminds you that you’re alive.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind.” 

The whole group went to a bar afterwards, including Tormund. No one seemed to mind their professor joining them. Ygritte sat next to Jon, introducing him around and then letting him sit as quietly as he wanted to after that. He would always love that about her too. Most of the students were younger than him, but he’d skipped out on college, so they were a fascinating different breed and it was interesting to listen about the small dramas of their lives. 

When Jon finished high school, he’d hugged Robb and Ned then gotten in the hand-me-down jeep with Ghost and drove North to become a park ranger. It hadn’t really been a choice. Ned had offered it and that meant he had to take it, but he’d never regretted it. He preferred the cold quiet of the evergreens and the wildlife they sheltered. He liked walking along the ruins of Wall and finding small bits of history when the frost thawed. Even helping lost hikers had become a joy. Meeting Sam had been a boon he hadn’t expected, the first friend he’d ever made on his own.

He’d met Ygritte when he was leading a school group through an easy trail. She’d been hiking through with a bare minimum of equipment and brushed off his feeble attempts to help her, making it clear she needed no assistance, except maybe company later that night. The teacher had been appalled, but Jon was well past worrying about other people’s mothers being appalled by him. 

“Another round!” Tormund called when the last of the students slipped away to join wilder parties or nurse their sore muscles in their dorms. Ygritte’s eyes were bright and she laughed as Tormund dropped enormous beers in front of them both. 

“I guess I’m sleeping on your couch,” Jon decided, wrapping his hands around the mug, taking a sip. It was darker than he usually drank, a little thicker too. “What is this?” 

“A Free Folk brew,” Tormund took a large gulp of his own, “there’s a company nearby that makes it from the old recipes.” 

“It’s good,” Jon nodded, taking another sip. Ygritte and Tormund exchanged a look over his head. “What?” 

“Southerners don’t get the taste for it, usually,” Ygritte shrugged. “They think it’s too bitter. Or salty sometimes.” 

“Huh,” he tasted it again, “doesn’t seem salty to me. But I murdered my tastebuds with coffee years ago.” 

“This is a strange Southerner,” Tormund decided. 

“I was raised in Winterfell and then moved to the Wall. Before I met Ygritte, no one ever called me that,” he was still amused by it. “Everyone else I know would say I was a Northerner.” 

“Then they’ve never come up this far or farther,” Tormund snorted. “What does the Wall know of the North?” 

“Mostly that it’s still there,” he allowed. “But people are just like that all over. Everyone thinks their home is the best and everyone else is from a crappier elsewhere.” 

“The North is better,” Tormund grinned and knocked his mug against Jon’s, “but maybe the South has one or two things worth seeing.” 

Near the bottom of the glass, Tormund leaned into Jon, “You rock climb?” 

“I’ve been once or twice,” his brain was starting to slow down significantly, “Wall is pretty flat.” 

“It’s a good time of year,” Tormund’s hands moved quickly, too quick for drunk eyes to follow, then put something into Jon’s shirt pocket. “If you ever want to give it a try.” 

“Okay,” Jon agreed, dimly aware Ygritte was laughing at him. 

He slept on her couch that night, headed home in the morning. He lived alone these days, no longer having to rely on the creaky accommodations that Park Services provided. It was a small place, snug in the pines. It was only a few miles to the nearest station, where he trekked every morning. Ghost was waiting for him on the porch, barking at him in reproach for his abandonment, but quick to forgive and lap at his hands. 

It was only when he was doing laundry days later that he pulled the card from his pocket. It was just a thin square of paper with the university logo and Tormund’s information on it. Apparently he was the Dean of the History Department which Ygritte hadn’t mentioned. Over his office number, Tormund had scrawled another number. Jon ran his finger over the ink. He started the wash, listening to the slosh of water for a long time. He’d had to learn to do his own laundry when he moved to the Wall, something that they’d all teased him over. It had taken two years of living with people from every walk of life to realize how privileged he had been to grow up among the Starks. Even if it was on the raggedy edge of their lives. 

He liked these small domestic chores now, the simple acts of keeping himself clean and fed seemed purifying. 

Eventually, he left the washing machine to do it’s business and went back into the living room. He set the card down on the end table next to the couch with other bits of mail and paper. 

He spent the week going about his business. He did paperwork and made schedules and got after his direct reports to get their vacation requests in. Once the admin was out of the way, he was walking his trails. There was a bit of graffiti on the ruins that he made note of and he gently parted some campers from their fireworks over their sullen glares. 

When he got home on Thursday (his Friday that week), he checked his email and froze. The message’s title didn’t change. With numb fingers, he picked up his phone and called Sam. 

“Jon, are you okay?” Sam sounded out of breath and Jon felt a little bad. Everyone knew that Jon never called when he could text and never texted when he could send an email. More than once, he’d handled something difficult with actual longhand letters. Ygritte had like those. 

“I’ve got the results,” he said thickly. “I thought they said eight weeks.” 

“It’s been seven,” Sam pointed out. “Close enough.” 

“I wasn’t ready.” 

“You don’t have to open it,” Sam said gently. “I’m half sorry I ever suggested it in the first place.” 

It had been on Jon’s birthday. They’d celebrated just the two of them because it was a work night. They drank soda and Sam had made him a cake that they ate most of in a sitting. Sam had given him a book (his bookshelf was full of things Sam had given him, only a third ever cracked open and even fewer read through). It’d been nice and Jon had said casually, 

“You know I’m not even sure if it’s my actual birthday.” 

“What do you mean?” Sam frowned at him. “Course it is.” 

“No, I mean, yeah it’s the birthday I’ve always celebrated, but I don’t think Dad was there when I was born. He always just said he came and got me, and that’s the day we use.” 

“Wild,” Sam frowned. “You ever wonder who she was?” 

“More when I was a kid then now,” Jon said and that was the truth as far as it went. 

“They do those DNA kit things, you know. If someone else in the family did one, and you did one, you could find her.” 

And Jon had heard of them before, but never really connected it to his life. Or maybe he hadn’t wanted to, but he thought about it almost every day after that until it was driving him to distraction. Finally, he bought one and then it sat on the end table for another month until he gave in and opened it. He’d had to spit a lot. 

Now the company had cheerily told him his results were in. 

“What if it doesn’t tell me anything at all?” Jon asked, clutching at the phone. 

“Then I guess you’re no worse off than you were,” Sam said gently. “It’s up to you, Jon. It won’t change who you are to anyone else.” 

“Can you...can you stay on the phone with me?” 

“Of course,” he could hear Sam settling in, maybe pulling a blanket on top of him. “Lucky for you little Sam is already asleep.” 

“Oh, right. Sorry.” 

“S’fine.” 

Jon took a deep breath and clicked on the link. It took him a moment to orient himself, to login and then find the ancestry data. 

“Taking forever to load.” 

“Well, you’ve waited this long.” 

He clicked on ‘Your Relatives’. To no surprise, he saw Bran’s name pop up. Bran would’ve been the first to leap all over something like this, he loved knowing everything. But next to his name was something...odd. 

“This is wrong.” 

“What is?” Sam asked. 

“It says Bran is my cousin.”

“But he’s your half-brother.” 

“Right, so this is wrong,” he looked down the list, a jumble of distant cousins. Then he realized he could filter by distance of relationship and it snapped into order. Bran wasn’t even at the top. 

“Who the fuck is Daenerys Targaryen?”

“Like the creepy Targayrens? I thought they were all dead.” 

“This one is alive,” Jon stared at her name ‘aunt’ printed next to it. “And she’s living somewhere on Essos.” 

“Is she a cousin or something? You know all the old families mingle a lot.” 

“She’s my aunt. Supposedly. I think they screwed something up,” he closed his eyes against it. Sam’s breath was quiet in his ear, waiting for him out. “Why would Ned lie to me?” 

“The usual reasons,” he was calm, reassuring and Jon wished he was here because the distance made it hard to accept it, “he was trying to protect someone, probably. Keep you safe.” 

“From who? Why?” 

“I could look into it, if you want.” 

Sam could find anything. He’d researched obscure laws to keep their funding in place, knew stories about Wall that no one else did, and gave Jon a muscle salve he’d made himself that eased every ache. 

If Jon wanted to know, Sam would find the answer. 

“Please,” he swallowed. He knew too much now to turn back. 

He knew he had to protect himself from dwelling on it until Sam found some answers. And Sam had other things in his life that needed his attention. A hike would give him too much free space in his brain. 

The end table caught his eye as he paced, the card he’d set down still at the top. Before he could second guess himself, he typed in the number. He sent the text before he could revise it again. He always sounded so stilted when he read back his messages, like he was impersonating a regular human. 

Tormund called. Of course he did. He would be the type of person that called instead of texted. 

“Snow,” he answered. 

“Hello to you too,” Tormund sounded just as jovial over the phone as he had in person. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Uh, so I’m sorry if you were just being polite or something, but I was thinking a climb sounded good.” 

“I say what I mean,” Tormund snorted, “tomorrow I have classes, but Saturday is fine. Do you have gear?” 

“I can borrow some,” there was plenty of gear at the station that they never had reason to use, “Where do you want me to meet you?” 

Tormund gave him directions to a park that Jon was vaguely familiar with. He would have to get a very early start to get there, but that was for the best. 

He managed to preoccupy himself on Friday with chores. He groomed Ghost’s fur which took the better part of the morning. Lucky for him, Ghost adored getting fussed over and was mostly obedient while Jon brushed him enough to brush out enough fur to make another direwolf. Then he meal-prepped for the week and that reminded him of Sansa, who used to carefully prepare her lunches for the school week like she was going to war.

His sister. Except maybe not. They’d never looked much alike at all. 

He didn’t sleep well that night and was glad of an excuse to get up early out of his bed. He packed for a long day out, said goodbye to Ghost, who huffed at him, then went out into the pre-dawn light. The drive was long, but interesting. The summer had claimed the land even this far north, pulling green up from the reluctant dun brown land. Low lying vines scrambled over jagged rocks while thick stemmed flowers jammed straight up to catch the light and warmth. 

Jon parked at the base of the mountain. There were a few other cars in the lot, but no one was in them. He picked up his equipment and walked up the trail. It wasn’t hard to spot Tormund, standing at the base of a sheer rock face. His hair was only slightly more tamed than last time, slicked away from his face. He had on baggy cargo pants and a grey t-shirt that had ‘Giantsbane’ in blue letters across the back. 

“I think you might’ve gotten the wrong idea when I said I’ve climbed before,” Jon came to stand next to him. “This is a little out of my range.” 

“You’ll manage,” Tormund clapped him on the shoulder, “or you’ll fall off.” 

“Great,” Jon sighed. 

But it wasn’t bad. Tormund was a good climbing partner and seemed willing to go a little slower to accommodate him. He was massively strong, hanging off the cliff face by one hand with ease to point at a handhold that Jon couldn’t see. There weren’t any other climbers out, but Tormund waved to some hikers far below them, calling out like they were old friends. 

“Do you know them?” 

“Eh?” Tormund found a toehold and pushed up another few feet. “Nah. Just good for other people to know where you are on a trail.” 

They reached the top eventually and sat on the edge. It didn’t seem as bad from up here. Jon pulled out a protein bar. 

“That’s what you’re eating?” Tormund looked at the thing like it personally offended him. 

“I like this brand, “Jon frowned down at the bar. “Why?” 

“Have some of my sandwich, it’s actual food.” 

So Jon took half of a massive sandwich that Tormund had apparently kept in one of his pockets, wrapped in wax paper. It was piled high with thinly sliced meat, fresh tomatoes and some kind of flavored mayo. 

“Thank you,” Jon said with real feeling. 

“There’s a deli by my place,” Tormund explained, “Free Folk run, you know. Best sandwiches around.” 

“I’ll stop by next time in the area,” he decided. “Do you only shop at Free Folk run places? I know Ygritte tries to.” 

“You try, but there’s not many of us left,” Tormund chewed and talked at the same time. “At least not those that'll agree to live near the city, even one as North as ours. And the Outland villages are fading. The South tempts away our youth and the old just get older.” 

“That sucks,” Jon said with real feeling. 

“It does,” Tormund glanced at him. “But we do what we can. We tell our stories. Teach our kids, so even when they leave us, they bring their heritage with them.”

“Do you have kids?” It occured to Jon that Tormund was certainly old enough to be someone’s dad. 

“Two,” Tormuned grinned. “Daughters. Want to see?” 

Jon leaned in as Tormund showed him a series of pictures on his phone of two equally red haired girls. They were fifteen and seventeen, Lovey and Ananda. They each lived with their mothers, but visited together in the summer or on school breaks. Lucky for Jon, he’d had Ygritte to explain the ways of the Free Folk, so he didn’t put his foot in it asking about that.

When they’d been going through a good patch years ago, Jon had asked Ygritte to marry him and she’d stared him down: “I’m no one’s wife, Jon Snow.” and when she’d stopped being mad, she’d told him that the Free Folk didn’t hold with marriage. Some people might stay partnered their whole lives, but that wasn’t expected. You stayed until you didn’t want to stay anymore. Children took their mothers' names and usually stayed with them. 

“They look like nice girls,” Jon offered. “You must be proud.” 

“Lovey is a smart one,” Tormund nodded. “She’ll come to the university, right now she’s on a biology kick. Maybe we’ll lose her to the South.” 

“It’s not all bad,” Jon said weakly, but he hardly went south himself these days. “I know some people down there. If she ever wants an introduction or something.” 

“Mm,” Tormund eyed him and Jon just looked back, unsure of what he was looking for. “Come on. There’s a hiker’s trail down and I think I’m done with climbing today.” 

It was probably a kindness to Jon because when he stood and strode away, Tormund looked as steady as a tree while Jon had to pause for a second to regain his legs. He was shakier than he’d like. He spent most of his days walking and that was a different muscle group apparently. He caught up and got steadier as they walked down the far side of the mountain. 

“What made you call?” Tormund asked eventually, breaking the pleasant quiet that had grown between them. “Didn’t really think you would.” 

“I got some strange news,” Jon raked a hand through his hair, only then recalling the dirt and sweat there. Well he’d have to wash his hair anyway. “And I needed to keep my head busy.” 

“You do look like someone that thinks themselves to pieces.” 

“Says the professor.” 

“That’s my job, not who I am,” Tormund shrugged. “You’re a worrier. You’ve got lines in your forehead.” 

“I guess I am,” he shook his head. 

“You want to talk about it?” 

“You’ll think it’s foolish,” Jon admitted. “It’s a family line thing and I know that’s not exactly important to you.” 

“I still have ears. I know how to listen.” 

“Do you know what a bastard is?” he asked. 

“I speak the southern language well enough for that,” Tormund looked slightly offended. 

“Ygritte didn’t know,” Jon explained hurriedly. “The first time I talked to her about it.” 

“Eh, you would’ve met her when she’d just moved here. Can’t live this close and not pick things up.” 

“Okay,” it had been awhile since he’d had to actually tell anyone this. It was strange saying it outloud now, knowing it might not even be true. “I grew up...I mean really until this week, thinking I was Ned Stark’s bastard son. The Starks raised me, but I was...I don’t know. Less than.” 

“Mm,” Tormund hummed, but made no further comment. That was enough to condemn that idea. 

“And it mattered where I was from. Mattered a lot. But it was still who I was, right? An identity even if I didn’t have the name to go with it. The other kids were still my siblings and Ned was still my Dad even if I didn’t call him that.” 

“So?” 

“So it might not be true at all,” Jon frowned. “And I don’t know what to think about that. Ned’s been gone for almost ten years. I can’t ask him why he lied. He must’ve had a good reason.” 

“If he was a good father then there was only one reason,” Tormund put his hand on Jon’s shoulder, “to protect you from something.” 

And that shouldn’t have been as reassuring as it was. It wasn’t even fresh news, Sam had guessed the same thing. But Jon could see Ned as clear as Tormund beside him in his mind’s eye in that moment. Ned with his soft eyes and determined mouth, who had bundled Jon and Robb into bed when they were small and read them the same books with all the voices, despite the way Catelyn’s mouth would go tight. Ned made bad decisions for the right reasons.

“You’re right,” he said quietly. 

“Course I am,” Tormund’s hand squeezed and he was strong, but it didn’t hurt. 

A bird cried out and that distracted them as Jon asked if it was a species he’d heard of up this way, but not yet spotted. Tormund was all too happy to correct him and then tell him about the story of the bird getting its color from defying a god. It was a good story. 

It was a good afternoon. 

“You should come down to me next time,” Jon offered when they reached the parking lot. “I’ll make us some lunch. There’s a good hike along the ruins.” 

“Next Saturday?” Tormund asked and it sounded casual, not urgent. 

“Yeah, sure. Say noon? I’ll text you the address.” 

They parted ways and Jon started the long drive back. His phone rang when he was halfway there and fumbled the speaker on. 

“Hello?” 

“Jay!” Arya’s voice chirped out over the tinny speaker. He smiled automatically. 

“Hey, Needle, what’s up? Kill anyone interesting lately?” 

“I wish,” her sigh was gusty over the speakerphone,”have I told you how much I hate long surveillance gigs?” 

“Yeah, only a couple of times, but I can stand to hear it again.” 

So she ranted about boredom and cramping, how Gendry kept sending her pictures of the much nicer hotel that he was lucky enough to have been posted at. When she ran out of rant, she asked about Ghost, about his work, even about Sam. They did this irregularly, checking in with each other. 

Maybe in theory, Jon should’ve related most to Theon. Both outsiders looking in, but Theon had been a nasty mouthed son of a bitch and Jon’s masochism had never extended that far. Instead, he had had Arya, half his age and twice as brave. 

“I heard something. From Bran,” she said when they’d run out of news. 

“Oh,” he stared out over the darkening road. In his upset, he’d forgotten that of course the emails from the service went both ways. Bran had probably gotten some alert about a new relative.

“Yeah, oh,” she scoffed. “Just...Jon, you’re my brother, okay? I don’t care where you came from.” 

“Yeah, okay,” he swallowed hard. “Getting sentimental on me?” 

“Fuck off,” she scoffed to his laughter. “I just know you’re already worrying yourself to pieces that we’ll throw you off the family tree.” 

“I guess,” he allowed, but he was thinking about Tormund’s story about the bird. Arya would like that one. “Thanks.” 

“Yeah, whatever,” she sniffed. “I should come up soon. See your worried face in person.” 

“Whenever,” he said sincerely. “You’re always welcome.” 

Not that he counted on it. He hadn’t seen Arya in person in three years. She had places to be that were more important than a quiet cabin in the woods. When he got home, he went right back out, taking Ghost with him for a long walk in the dark. The moon was nearly full, providing enough light for man and dog. 

He wondered if Tormund liked dogs. 

Sam approached him a few days later. Jon was helping a team scrub off the graffiti he’d found and grinned as Sam gamely picked up his own rag. 

“Not your job, anymore.” 

“Doesn’t mean I can’t help,” Sam shrugged. “So I think we need to go down to the records in KL.” 

“Really?” Jon sighed. 

“Really. Won’t be anything at Winterfell, not if they were trying to keep things quiet. But the records are supposed to be as accurate as they can make them.” 

“Could be a dead end if Ned was really trying to cover it up.” 

“Could be,” Sam shrugged. “What’s our other choice?” 

Jon was still mulling that over when Saturday rolled around. Tormund arrived in a surprisingly small sedan, seemingly unfolding from it like he’d stored some part of himself in pocket dimension. 

Ghost took off, darting for the intruder before Jon could stop him. 

“Puppy!” Tormund got to his knees, arms held out for the enormous hound. Ghost, who usually had all the poise and reserve of a cat, took this greeting entirely on its face and barreled into the man, licking and wiggling. “What a tremendous mutt you are, lovely thing.” 

“His name is Ghost,” Jon grinned. “And I guess you’re friends now.” 

“Ah, Ghost for the color, eh?” Tormund let Ghost inspect him thoroughly before returning to petting him enthusiastically. 

“I don’t have much imagination for names.” 

“Nah, suits him,” Tormund gave Ghost a last scratch, getting to his feet and then his arm was around Jon’s shoulders. “Not many men have direwolves for pets. Didn’t even know that was legal south of the wall.” 

“I don’t have a direwolf,” Jon said with a bland straight face. “He’s an overgrown husky.” 

“Does anyone actually believe that?” Tormund hooted with laughter. “That beast weighs twice as much as you do and he’s got a wolf’s face besides.” 

“No one’s ever dared argue with me over it at least,” he admitted. 

The ‘dog’ padded ahead of them back into the house. Jon gave Tormund a quick tour, not that there was too much to show. Just a comfortable bungalow, more than enough for a man living on his own in the woods. 

“You heat the place with this thing?” Tormund studied the fireplace with appreciation. 

“Mostly, yeah,” he headed into the kitchen, “I’ve got an electric heater for the bedroom.” 

“I do like central heating,” Tormund admitted, following gamely along. “Grew up with a pot belly stove that had an endless hunger. It did us well enough, but the first time I stayed in the dorms and it was just warm without any effort, it was a relief. Still use the stove when I go home.” 

“Winterfell was drafty,” the stew was simmering along well in it’s pot. Jon gave it a quick stir, “we had central heat put in when I was eight or nine, but it only got it up to just warm enough not to freeze in your bed. We still had fireplaces in most of the rooms. Sometimes, Robb and I would just bundle into bed with the little ones. Have a sleepover.” 

“My sister was a kicker,” Tormund peered into the pot, then ambled to the other side of the kitchen where Jon had a few family photos hung up by the backdoor. “Used to cuddle up for warmth than bruise the shit out of me.” 

“I can sympathize with that. Arya was all elbows and knees. She’s the one giving the finger in the middle photo.” 

“Aw, look at that angry bug. Cute. The one with the curls is Robb?” 

“Yeah,” Jon nodded. “Sansa is the redhead. Theon is the other tall boy. Bran is the one toddling away and Rickon is the baby. I was about...twelve there, I think.” 

“Not a smiling face,” Tormund tapped the grim twelve year old Jon’s face. 

“Who is at twelve?” 

“Mm,” was the noncommittal reply. 

“Why, what were you like at twelve?” 

“I ran away into the woods and got adopted by a pack of wolves,” Tormund was still studying the other photos. There was one of Ygritte and Yara, leaning against each other and laughing, “lived with them for four years.”

The words didn’t quite penetrate for a moment, then Jon laughed, the sound startled out of him, “Tell me about it.” 

And Tormund did as they sat down to lunch, sketching a wild tale about stolen shapechanger skins. It lasted through most of the stew (which Tormund roundly praised though it was simple enough) and Jon was content to listen. 

“Why’d you want to run though?” he asked when Tormund finally ended the story with a triumphant return home. 

“My aunt died,” Tormund’s happy face folded in on itself some.

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“Thanks. She was a good woman. My father’s sister. I was more like her than my mother, so she half-raised me. Taught me all the stories I know and some I’ve probably forgotten. Went to university because she would’ve wanted me to.” 

“Seems like it worked out,” Jon offered. 

“Most days,” Tormund smiled at him. “Some more than others.” 

“Do you want another beer?”

They drank it on the front porch and Tormund told him about a brewery that made the beer Jon had liked the night they met.

“You should come out with me there next Friday,” he decided. “See the process.” 

“I like that, but I’ve got something I have to do. Friday after that?” 

“I’ll hold you to it.” 

What Jon had to do was go to the archives. Unforutantely, little Sam had a cold. Sam did call down ahead of time for him, and ensure he could access the records. 

“Wouldn’t want you to go all that way and get turned back,” Sam had said earnestly.

He caught a flight from the nearest airstrip on Thursday, making plans to stay the night and head back out on Friday. There was no need to make a production out of it, but taking the long way down like it was some kind of vacation seemed off too. 

The archivist greeted him perfunctorily, and set him in a room with a heavy wooden box. 

“There are several for the Starks,” the archivist eyed him closely, “but I was told you only need access to the most recent.” 

“That’s fine,” he nodded, staring at the heavy thing, trying to imagine enough names and history to fill several of its kin. “Thank you.” 

Politeness helped, he’d learned that early. Quiet. Patience. Politeness. Some of it was damned hard to unlearn. He opened the box once the archivist was gone. There were thick leather bound books that tapered away into thick plastic binders, each bearing the name of a former Stark patriarch. The second to last volume had ‘Eddard Stark’ typed neatly on the label. 

The first few pages were typewritten. It was a complicated contract and it took him some time to distinguish that it was a prenuptial agreement between Catelyn Tully and Eddard Stark. It was about as romantic as a tax return. 

The next few pages had been torn out. Jon stared down at the ragged tags of paper left behind, their stubs as good as a bleeding wound to tell the story. 

The page after that was Robb’s birth certificate, then all the other kids, each neatly typed with their familiar birthdays next to height and weight. There was no mention of a sixth child, lingering in the margins, unclaimed. Undocumented years flowed away and ran smack into Ned’s death certificate. The autopsy report was apparently requestable. Jon shivered and turned the page. And that was that. 

Jon carefully slid the binder back in the box. The next binder read ‘Robb Stark’. It was slim, just containing Robb’s acceptance of head of family and empty space for all that might follow. 

So there was nothing. He closed his eyes and took a deep shuddering breath, letting it out slowly. He’d known that was likely the case. Knew coming here was a waste of time. Bad idea, Snow, he counseled himself. Should’ve stayed North. Should’ve kept on trying not to give a shit.

He slid Robb’s binder back against his father’s where it belonged. 

It snagged on something. Jon pulled it back out, reaching in to fish out a bland thin book, bound in stiff paper instead of leather. In someone’s slanting rickety handwriting it was labeled _Stark Bastards_. 

Jon opened it carefully, the binding stiff and resisting. The first dozen or so pages were handwritten, after that typewritten pages were pasted or just shoved in between the pages. Most of them were birth records or fractions of wills from long-dead Stark fathers bequeathing small amounts on their scattered spawn. He read all of them, giving them his fullest attention. It felt like the least he could do. 

Eventually, he found his own birth certificate. He’d seen it before, with Ned’s name written in for father, the mother’s name left blank. It was pasted badly onto the page. Towards the bottom someone had drawn a small arrow pointing to one corner. The corner peeled a little away from the page. 

Jon frowned and lifted the corner. There was a folded up piece of paper secreted underneath. He stared at it for a long second before sliding a finger under the birth certificate to pull it gently free. He unfolded it slowly, the creases were reluctant to give up their hold. 

The yellowed paper was a marriage license. The bride was Lyanna Stark, the groom Rhaegar Targaryen. The date of their wedding was a bare eight months off his own supposed birthday. Jon touched her name, her face familiar from family photos that Ned would drag out to show them. Had he taken special care that Jon would know her? Or was it just his grief? 

His mother. He’d had a mother. And a father. Jon knew the name Rhaeger, the supposed kidnapper of his long dead aunt. The man who was killed in the process of getting her back, only for her to die not long after the rescue. It had been a twisted fairy tale whispered through the family. 

It had always been a tangle in his mind, a play that had happened to other people far away. Fortunes lost and won, power given and taken. And the death of one woman, however tragic, had gotten lost in the shifting sands. 

He took a picture of the certificate, then carefully refolded it and returned it to it’s hiding place. Then he slid the bastards’ book back into the box, straightening it so sat a little higher up and wouldn’t so easily slip away again. 

Once he was free of the archive, he texted Sam, 

_still a Stark,sort of. not a bastard_

_how’s that feel?_

_fucking weird._

He thought about it as he walked the unfamiliar streets. He’d never spent much time in big cities and never really adjusted to them comfortably. It seemed the buildings loomed above him, tightening their grip on him until he was safely into The Lion’s Tale. 

“Jon!” Tyrion greeted him from a barstool. He had a laptop in front of him, and a notebook to the other side. Brienne was slicing limes behind the bar, but she paused long enough to greet him in her solemn way. He hadn’t been certain of his welcome when he’d sent the email. He and Tyrion had only met a handful of times, years ago, but they’d exchanged a message here or there. Usually Tyrion asking him off the wall questions about Wall because it had come up in something he was reading. 

The return message had been gracious and immediate.

“Hello,” he sat down beside him, “I hope you don’t mind me crashing in.” 

“It’s hardly crashing when you call ahead of time,” Tyrion chided. “Brienne’s making summer drinks, want one?” 

“What’s a summer drink?” 

“Generally any drink one could label as refreshing,” Tyrion grinned. “As refreshed as one can be by a good dram of booze.”

“You look like a man who should have some tequila,” Brienne decided and the drink that wound up in front of him was some relative of a margarita, but slightly fizzier. 

“Thanks,” he drank a long swallow of it. 

“So how did your ‘family business’ go?” Tyrion asked, closing his laptop.

“Surprisingly,” he landed on. 

“That happens with uncomfortable frequency.” 

The conversation over dinner was light and no one stopped him when Jon declared he was going to sleep early, tucking himself away in the pleasant guest room Tyrion kept upstairs. Sleep was slow to come, but he occupied himself reading the titles of the books that wound around the room until it did. When he woke up, Tyrion was already in the kitchen with his first cup of coffee, swathed in a deep red robe. Tysha must be in the shower, the faint sound of water falling in the distance. 

“You look like a man with a question,” Tyrion looked up at him blearily. 

“Can I...” Jon sat down across from him. “I don’t know.”

“Of course you know. Coyness doesn't suit you.” 

“I was wondering if you knew Daenerys Targaryen? You seem to know everyone.” 

“Hardly everyone,” Tyrion demurred, taking a sip of coffee. “But yes, I know Dani quite well. She has a band with her husband that’s played here several times. She’s a rising star on the Essos scene, probably she’ll conquer Westeros when she has the chance. Her son was born just a few months ago, so she’s taking a short sabbatical.” 

Jon nodded, absorbing that information. The window was slightly ajar, a soft breeze wafting in off the street. Somewhere a siren rang out. 

“Do you like her? I mean, is she a good person?” 

“Those are two very different questions,” Tyrion sounded amused. “But I’d say yes to both. I like her and I’d say she’s as good a person as the next. May I ask why you’re interested?” 

“It’s the family business stuff,” he frowned. “I don’t know if I should talk about it or not. Ned worked so hard to cover it up, but I don’t know why and it’s been so long now.”

The shower cut off abruptly, a soft hum of some off key song taking its place. Tyrion’s smile softened at the sound, 

“Do you want to know what I think, Jon?” 

“Yes,” he said wearily. “Please.” 

“I think that secrets have never done any of our families any good.”

“She’s my aunt,” Jon said after a measure of silence. “Lyanna Stark was legally married to Rheager Targaryen.”

“Now fancy that,” Tyrion sat back, “I can tell you then why Ned kept it a secret. But I can also tell you that it doesn’t matter anymore.” 

And Tyrion sketched out the sordid fall of the Targaryen fortune and how the Baratheons and Starks had claimed the remains of the company from it’s troubled patriarch. The way the feud had split relations and how the existence of a legitimate heir would’ve put Jon’s very life in jeopardy. 

Tysha came in during the story, already dressed for work. Tyrion paused to turn his face up for a hurried goodbye kiss. 

“Sorry to say hello and goodbye Jon,” she squeezed his shoulder gently. “Have a good trip back.” 

She was gone in a wave of soap and the swish of scrubs. Tyrion’s eyes were slightly unfocused then snapped back to Jon’s face, 

“But none of that matters now.” 

“Why not?” Jon blinked, trying to pick the thread of the narrative back up. His shoulder tingled where she had squeezed it, her easy affection throwing him for a loop. 

“The money is gone, mostly,” Tyrion shrugged. “The power structure of King’s Landing changed after my father died. There’s something left of the Targaryen fortune, but it would be a protracted legal battle to get it and there wouldn’t be much left in the end. You could fight her for the right to use the company name, I suppose, That still has some value. Do you want Iron Throne. LLC, Jon?” 

The way Tyrion asked made it clear he knew Jon’s answer, but Jon said it anyway, 

“No,” he looked out the window to the city that he rarely frequented. “I think I prefer my woods. No offense.”

“None taken,” Tyrion laughed. “I can give you her email. If you’d like to reach out.” 

“Thanks.” 

So Jon carried the uncovered secret of his birth and a line of text back home with him. He didn’t use the email, but he could feel the weight of it, the possibility in the back of his mind. 

He did his job. He took long walks with Ghost and went to Sam’s house for dinner. Gilly cut him a thick slice of pie for dessert and covered it in whip cream, cramming in next to him on the loveseat instead of on the couch with Sam. 

“Doesn’t matter where you came from,” she said quietly when Sam got up to tend the fire. “Kin is who you choose.” 

“Thanks,” he gave her a one armed hug. 

On Friday, he met Tormund at the brewery. The tour was actually interesting and Tormund was politely quiet all the way through though he must’ve known most of what was being said. Jon hadn’t really seen him like that before, listening intently and seriously as if it was of the utmost import. 

“Have you heard the one about how humans stole beer from the gods?” Tormund asked him, as they sat down with their pints at a booth, the promise of burgers in their future. 

“I thought that was fire?” 

“Feh, anyone can figure out fire,” Tormund grinned. “But it takes true genius for beer.”

“Tell me now,” Jon encouraged. 

It seemed all their meetings were laced with stories. Some were about the stories of Tormund’s people, some embellished events of his life, some fantastical ones about his youth that involved sticking his dick in some inadvisable spaces. All of them delivered with Tormund’s wide grin and his eyes dancing brightly as if he was inviting Jon in on a joke. A permanent ‘Can you believe this shit?’ that Tormund exuded. 

It carried them into the first hints of winter. The warning flurries of snow that chased away Tormund’s baggy shorts to be replaced with permanently wrinkled khakis and handknit sweaters in elaborate patterns. They still hiked together on weekends more often than not, the crunch of frozen leaves under foot punctuation to Tormund’s yarns. And slowly Jon’s own stories though they were shorter and told with far less flare. 

“And you know. Then there was just pie everywhere,” he said helplessly as the sun started to set on them one day. “And Arya sitting there, without a crumb on her..” 

Tormund was laughing, a great bellowing laugh that made the birds fly out of the trees. Jon felt a warmth in his cheeks despite the cold. Pleasure. Pleasure at making Tormund laugh at something as ridiculous as a food fight. 

“Ah,” Tormund stopped abruptly, turning his face up to the sky, “smell that?” 

Jon stopped, inhaling. 

“Snow,” they said simultaneously. 

“Won’t be much this early on,” Jon guessed. 

“Still,” Tormund glanced at him, “first snow of the year. Should be honored.” 

They ate the dinner Jon had left in the crockpot on the back porch even though the air was bitter and Ghost refused to join them, instead sensibly curling up inside by the fire. Fine white flakes, caught in the porch light and seemed to pause in their descent for a breathless second before falling into the dark. 

“I’m headed up home for the semester break,” Tormund said when the last bite was gone. “I’ll be gone a fair few weeks.” 

“Oh,” Jon fished out a carrot from his bowl with the spoon, “do you do that every year?” 

“Usually go for some of the summer too. You caught me just coming back this year for the sword lessons.” 

Jon watched the snow, “I’ve never been that far North.” 

“Come up for a visit then,” Tormund said. 

Warmth curled in Jon’s belly. He let it sit there, observed, but not yet ready to be nourished. 

“I’d like that.” 

Tormund slept on his couch that night, their talk spiraling too late for him to take the drive home. Jon could hear him from his bed, not snoring, but breathing deeply. Jon fell asleep listening to the even rhythm through the walls. 

_time for a call?_ Robb’s text came through just after Jon had seen Tormund off the next morning. 

He stared at the phone for a long minute. Arya wouldn’t have said anything to Robb. Maybe Bran would, but maybe not. It didn’t matter. Either way, Jon had put it off long enough. He called. 

“Hey!” Robb answered, chipper. “I was hoping you weren’t working today.” 

“I am, but not for another hour,” he started loading the dishwasher for something to do with his hands, nestling emptied coffee mugs beside each other. 

“I’ll make it quick then,” someone else spoke in the background and Robb shushed them. “Listen, you know how Mom isn’t Talisa’s biggest fan?” 

“...yes?I think the entire North knows.” 

“Right so...we’re going to get married.” 

“Congratulations!” 

“Thanks, man! But you know that Mom will make it a whole thing once I tell her and the wedding will just be one big long argument. So.” 

“So?” Jon leaned against his counter. 

“So we’re going to elope!” 

“Oh...oh wow. Your mother might actually kill you.” 

“Which is why she’s not invited. We don’t want to make it a whole thing, but we don’t want to not have anyone there either. I was just hoping maybe you’d come be my best man?” 

“Yeah,” he said, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice, “of course I will.” 

And maybe once Robb would’ve asked Theon and Jon would’ve just smiled his way through that. Maybe in some ways he was still a second choice to a man that didn’t exist anymore, but that was what it was. 

“That’s great. And you won’t say a word to anyone else right?” 

“Of course not. But Arya will know anyway and if she doesn’t find out on her own Bran will tell her.” 

“But we’re not telling Bran,” Robb sounded befuddled and Jon sighed. 

“You don’t have to tell Bran, he’ll just know.” 

“That’s ridiculous. Anyway, I’ll send you the date soon.” 

“Hey, there’s just this thing-” 

“Oh-shit, I have to go,” the other voice was getting louder. “Talisa’s sister is having a fit over this apparently. Talk to you soon!” 

“Bye,” Jon said to the dead line. 

He got ready for work and composed a dozen emails to Robb in his head, before deciding it would just have to wait. It was an in person kind of thing. He would just have to tell him before the wedding whenever that was, just in case Catelyn did actually murder him and Jon by proxy for knowing about it. 

He thought about calling Tormund a lot over the next few weeks. It had seemed reasonable to plan to take off deep into the winter when Tormund would have already been gone nearly a month. It let some of the other rangers take off for various holidays that seemed to cluster around the short dark days and he could catch up on paperwork in the quieter office.

But he hadn’t counted on missing the man so damned much. Tormund just...took up a lot of space and when Jon started to think about it, a lot of his time. The village Tormund called home was out of cell range and had spotty internet at best, so all the texts that Jon hadn’t realized peppered his day stopped abruptly. Gone were the small complaints about students and raunchy jokes. Gone were the ‘have you ever tried-’ questions that led them on interesting explorations. 

It left a daunting silence. 

By the time the day rolled around to go, Jon’s car was long packed and he got started at the first light. Ghost lay down in the back seat with a contented sigh as if he knew where they were going. 

He drove on the highway past the college. He was still familiar with the exits for another hour, places he’d gone with Ygritte or Tormund or work had taken him. But then they got farther apart and the highway got smaller. The road was still well tended, kept plowed. The signs changed colors though, Westerosi written underneath several other languages. The Free Folk had a dozen dialects, more than that once upon a time, and it seemed whoever lived nearby got theirs stuck at the top. He knew he was getting closer when the signs shifted Tormund’s mother tongue up the hierarchy. ‘The Old Tongue’ was all Tormund would call it as if all other versions of the Old Tongue were inferior copies. Maybe they were, who was Jon to argue? 

The snow piled higher and higher as he went, the trees frozen like crystalline statues where they stood. The exit Tormund had told him to take had almost lost it’s sign to the drifts. It led him down a snakey two lane road that turned to gravel after a few miles. He saw a hodgepodge of other cars pulled onto the side of the road right before it came to an abrupt end.

Tormund’s truck was there. Jon pulled up in the space behind it, opening the door for Ghost. The direwolf made a contented sound as he shuffled around the familiar vehicle then took a piss on the wheel. Well at least Jon would already have something to tell Tormund that might make him laugh. 

Jon felt rather than saw eyes on him, then heard just the faintest crunch of ice moving away. He tried to track the motion without avail. Giving up, he hefted up his bag and made for the shovelled out footpath at the end of the parking lot. It was narrow and half iced back over, so he took his time, watching the village appear over the horizon. 

The cluster of buildings looked like huddled bodies in the snow, dark wooden structures built in a haphazard array around a central building. There was smoke rising from almost every chimney, the smell of a fire thick in the air. A few kids were playing a complicated game of tag on a cleared patch of land. They stopped as Jon neared, staring at him. 

“Hello,” he tried a smile on them, and felt it too stiff on his lips. “I’m looking for Tormund?” 

“He’s in there,” one little girl pointed off to the left at one of the houses, this one with a door painted a cheery yellow. “Who are you?” 

“No one,” he shrugged. “Just a friend.” 

She eyed him suspiciously, but let him pass without further question. Ghost had already trotted on ahead, waiting for him to open the door. Before Jon could reach it, it burst open, 

“Snow!” Tormund was grinning, arms thrown wide. 

“Hello,” Jon could feel his answering smile, coming without any accord of his own. And he was in an embrace before he quite knew what was happening. Tormund’s coat was thick with fur, warm and ticklish against his face. 

“Is this him?” A woman stepped around Tormund with a mischievous look on her face. She was almost as tall as Tormund, and nearly as broad, her coat a ferocious magenta that burned against the snow. 

“Jon, this is Manya. She’s Ananda’s mother.” 

“It’s nice to meet you,” Jon was still being hugged. 

“You too,” Manya laughed. “This one’s been full of new stories about his Southern friend.” 

“Am I going to have to move to the pole to convince you I’m not from the South?” 

“Oh, you’re getting a little of the North in you now,” Tormund allowed, finally releasing him and Jon felt a little bereft. 

“It’s beautiful,” Jon said earnestly. 

“It’s that sometimes,” Manya shook her head. “I was just on my way out, but we’ll break bread together tonight, eh Snow?” 

“Family dinner,” Tormund was kneeling now to lavish attention on Ghost, who was happy to take it as his due. “Lovey and her aunt are visiting for a few weeks. They’re staying with the aunt’s cousin across the way. We’ll have the house mostly to ourselves.” 

“That’s fine. Be nice to meet some of your people.” 

“Probably meet all of them before you go,” Tormund nudged him, “new blood is always interesting.” 

The first room in the house was the living room and kitchen, a pot belly stove belching out heat. The ceilings were low and Tormund looked comically large in his own home. 

“Easier to heat,” Tormund sighed as he ducked through the doorway of the guest room. “I’d do something about it if I were here more often.” 

The guest room was graced with a large bed covered in a gorgeous quilt. Jon ran his hand over the stitching as he listened to Tormund explained the finer points of the village houses designs, 

“And anyway, we were nomadic until just a few generations ago. Would’ve been something to live like that, don’t you think? Moving from place to place, seeing something new every day when you woke up.” 

“Sleeping on rocks,” Jon pointed out, mostly to make Tormund grimace at him. 

“Soft,” Tormund scoffed affectionately. “Come on, you’ve been sitting in that car too long. Let’s go for a walk.” 

Jon was armed with his winter issue coat,the uniform of the Wall rangers modified by time into a thick black down mass, with crow feathers embroidered around the edges of the hood, along with thick practical mittens and fur lined boots. 

Although he knew in a few more weeks the cold would be an exhausting burden, it was early enough into the true cold that it was exhilarating to feel it on his face. He pushed his thick scarf to cover just his mouth and chin, inhaling the crispness of it all. 

There were paths broken through the snow in every direction and Tormund seemed to choose one at random. Jon waited for the other man to start talking, to fill the densely chilled air with stories. But instead they were quiet together, meandering into the woodlands around the village. The trees here were old, clustered together to protect each other from high winds. Jon knew without looking that beneath the snow, their roots would be deeply entangled together. 

“Thank you for inviting me,” the words rose out of him, unbidden and probably a little too sincere. 

Tormund’s arm went around his shoulders and they walked for a long time, locked in step together. 

The trail let out from the woods eventually, displaying a wide open view of craggy mountains. There was a lake, well frozen over spread before them. 

“Ever been ice fishing?” Tormund asked. 

“Once or twice,” he had a dim memory of Ned taking him, Robb and Theon to a lake like this when they were in their early teens. The ice saw had been dulled with too much use and they wound up skating instead, Theon wobbly and less practiced at something for once. He and Robb had had to keep scooping him off the ice with laughter that verged on unkind. “Never caught anything though.” 

“We’ll go tomorrow,” Tormund decided. “Catch our lunch.” 

The trail looped back toward the village eventually. When they returned to Tormund’s house, Ghost was flopped on a rug in front of the stove, eyes half closed in bliss. There were small puddles around him, so he must’ve done some exploring of his own. 

“How’d he get in?” Tormund squatted down to give the direwolf a through head scratch. 

“He’s good at knobs,” Jon shook his head, looking for a rag to mop up the mess. 

“Smart pup,” Tormund praised, running his hands down Ghost’s neck. 

“He’s saved my life a time or two.” 

“Very smart pup,” came the quick amendment, and Jon smiled as he cleaned. 

There was just enough time before dinner for a quick shower. The bathroom at least had been changed to accommodate a tall man and the water was as hot as Jon would have wanted. Everything was fairly clean and had a distinct style, just like Tormund’s apartment in town. There were even the same dark wood shelves and pine scented detergent on the towels. It felt like a grown up lived there, something Jon always strived for and was never quite sure that he managed. 

He was presentable in time to help set the table and watch Tormund throw the door back open for Manya to come back in. She was holding a dish in her gloved hands, setting them down on the table, before giving Jon a friendly wave, 

“Heard you’re going fishing tomorrow.” 

“Apparently,” he said readily, trying to figure out how that information could’ve been conveyed in the few seconds Tormund had spent greeting her. 

“Awful,” she shoved her gloves in her pockets. 

“Just because you fell in one time,” Tormund teased her. 

“I almost died you heartless oaf,” she punched at his arm. 

“Mom, you were in the water for like two seconds,” a twiggy girl with dark hair stepped in through the still open door, “and Dad freaked out for a week. It was so stupid.” 

“There’s a guest here,” Manya huffed. “Ananda, this is Jon Snow. Jon, this is our daughter.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Jon held out a hand. He got a limp disinterested shake, before Ananda was rifling through the fridge. 

Tormund shrugged, “It felt like longer than a few seconds.” 

“Always does,” Jon commiserated. 

After that, the arrival of the woman they all just called ‘Auntie’ and Lovey was almost anticlimactic. Auntie offered Jon only slightly politer disinterest than Ananda, the two of them took up one side of the table, content with their own company apparently. 

Lovey was entirely different. She was a plump girl with great big shining eyes and Tormund’s hair though she kept it in a more interesting style, swept back through dozens of braids. He wondered if it was styled to look Southern intentionally or if that’s just what young women did these days. Ananda’s was loose around her face, so maybe not. 

“Dad told me all about you,” she said immediately, seizing Jon’s hand with a shy smile. “Can I meet your dog?” 

“If he wants to be met,” Jon agreed, instantly charmed. Ghost had retreated into the guest room and wouldn't be moved, but was content enough to have the girl offer her hand for a sniff and a scratch. 

“Dad says he’s a real dire wolf, but he sometimes...” Lovey trailed off glancing at Jon. 

“He tells good stories,” Jon offered. 

“Yeah,” she nodded, “so is he?” 

“What do you think?” 

Lovey smoothed one hand over the great white beast’s head, “I think it makes a better story if he is. How’d you wind up with him?” 

“We found them,” Jon tried to think of a way to sanitize the story for a moment. Then remembered who’s daughter she was. Tormund didn’t care for cleaning up details to make a story pretty. “There was a dead stag in the road, looked like it had put up a big fight. My father followed some noises and the blood. There was an enormous dog that hadn’t made it out of the fight either. She had pups with her.” 

Lovey was still petting Ghost, “We’ve got regular wolves up here. They don’t usually take on big stags alone.” 

“I think she was protecting her children. They weren’t really old enough to be alone,” he pat Ghost’s flank. 

“So you took them in?” 

Jon remembered the deep chill in his gut when Ned had turned away from the pups. How he’d had to come up with something quickly and used what little pull he had to make sure all five pups made it out of that gully and into the arms of children that loved them. 

“Yes,” he smiled at her. “And I thought it was nice because it was five of them, five Stark children. But this one,” he rubbed his fingers over the suede of Ghost’s ear, a tick he retained from when Ghost had been small enough to fit in his lap and ask for such attention, “was hiding. The runt of the litter.” 

“How long ago was that?” 

“Fifteen years ago or there about.” 

“He’s an old wolf then,” she smiled down at Ghost. “And no runt.” 

“No, not a runt,” Jon shrugged. “And not as old as you’d think.If he were a direwolf, they can live a long time.” 

“If,” she smiled at him, clearly pleased to be in on the secret. 

“Anyway, what about you? Do you have pets?” 

He didn’t want to think about that day anymore. How Ghost had outlived so many of his siblings. 

“Sort of. Nothing as cool as a wolf.”

“Ghost is not cool,” he snorted. “He snores and sometimes he gets annoyed with me and pisses on my shoes.” 

She laughed, “Still cooler than goats.” 

“That depends on the goats. What kind do you have? We get wild ones sometimes, in Wall, but we give them a wide berth.” 

“Oh, these are curly ones,” she pulled out her phone. It was a battered older model, but it was carefully protected in a sparkly rainbow case and modern enough to take photos of a small group of goats with obscenely fluffy curly coats. “My mom’s family has been raising them forever and you get some on your tenth birthday to raise on your own. You can do all sorts of things with them, but I make cheese mostly.” 

“I love goat’s cheese,” he told her honestly, “do you name them?” 

“Uh huh, we’re not reeeally supposed to, but since mine aren’t for eating, no one gives me too hard a time about it,” she started pointing to the goats and naming them just as Jon became aware they weren’t alone. 

Tormund was leaning in the doorway, quiet and small smile practically hidden by his beard. 

“Are we holding up dinner?” Jon asked, suddenly self-conscious. How long had he been there? 

“Nah, just about to take the chicken out,” the smile didn’t go anywhere, and it was too soft and too much. Jon had to look away, look down at the photo of the curly goats. “Didn’t want to interrupt.” 

“It’s nothing,” Lovey shoved the phone away. “Just boring goat stuff.” 

“I wasn’t bored,” Jon nudged her gently with his elbow. 

“It’s true,” Tormund reached out and for a moment, Jon thought he might ruffle his hair or something equally friendly yet dismissive. Instead, his hand landed on Jon’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “Seen him watch a squirrel for half an hour.” 

“You have not,” Jon laughed, but it was not impossible that that had actually happened. He liked animals and sometimes forgot there were other people in his house when something caught his attention. 

“Probably should wash up,” Tormund did ruffle Lovey’s hair though he was careful not to disturb her braids. “Don’t want anything to go cold.” 

“Okay, Dad,” she ducked away, but came back in for a quick hug before heading for the bathroom. 

Jon got up too, but Tormund didn’t move. 

“What?” 

“You didn’t tell me about that. About how you got him.” 

“It’s not an interesting story,” Jon frowned. “How long were you standing there?” 

“Five pups. Five Starks?” Tormund lifted an eyebrow. “That was you that said that, I bet.” 

“How’d you know?” He frowned, “Anyway. It’s not a big deal. Found some dogs, adopted some dogs.” 

Tormund squeezed his shoulder again, then let his hand drop away, “You’re a strange one, Snow.” 

It was said with such warmth that Jon found no offense to take. 

Dinner proceeded with more ease than he’d hoped. Ananda and Auntie made a few faces, but Jon had clearly made an accidental ally with Lovey. Whenever the conversation lulled or Ananda made a sarcastic comment, Lovey would intervene with a story about school or start explaining what was in the food to Jon. And after awhile, Ananda seemed to unwind and ask follow up questions. To her credit, she seemed genuinely interested in her sister just carrying around the general surliness of a teen made to be somewhere they didn’t want to be. 

After dessert, the girls started washing plates while Tormund took up a drying cloth. Jon stayed at the table, hands around a mug of tea, watching them. Manya and Auntie were talking the Old Tongue tand the girls' voices overlapped too much to be distinguished. It was a low hubbub, underscored with Tormund’s deep laugh. 

Jon slept surprisingly well in the borrowed bed, Ghost sprawled next to him. The sound of Tormund’s footsteps in the hall woke him in the grey dawn and he got dressed with a yawn. They didn’t bother with a full breakfast, just a thermos of coffee and a lunch box for later. Ghost stayed in the doorway as they headed out. 

“Too cold for you?” Jon teased him and Ghost huffed and turned tail back into the house. “You’re from here!” 

“Leave him be,” Tormund grinned. “Dog has better sense than his master.” 

“Probably,” Jon allowed. It was freezing, and he was careful to pull his scarf up over the tip of his nose today.

It had been a long time since he walked out onto a thickly frozen lake, but he remembered the careful shuffle. There was already a hole bored through not far from shore, some lawn chairs left behind by the last fisherman. 

“You come out here a lot?” Jon asked as Tormund unpacked poles and assembled them quickly even with his gloves on. 

“Only in the winter. Hate boats,” Tomund handed him his pole and Jon tried to hold it like he had any idea what he was doing. “Get seasick.” 

“That’s too bad. Yara takes us out in the summer sometimes and it’s usually a good day,” he took his seat when Tormund did and watched carefully as he cast the line, doing his best to imitate it. 

“You know her long?” 

“Sort of,” he shifted to retreat further into his coat. “Theon would talk about her sometimes, less as we got older. She and Ygritte met years ago at some bar and they’re super close.”

“You’re close too though.” 

“I guess?” he frowned, looking at the line. “I mean we’re friends.” 

“She’s the one that texts you in the middle of the night sometimes.” 

Tormund had asked when he’d slept off too many drinks on the couch one night and Jon’s buzzing phone had woken him. Jon had felt awkward admitting it, like he was telling Yara’s secrets to the world, even though she wouldn’t have cared. 

“Because we’re insomnia buddies,” Jon shrugged. “She’s got a lot on her plate and she knows I’m awake.” 

“What do you talk about at three in the morning then?” 

“Nothing important. We both like hockey, so that most of the time. Work stuff. We both manage a lot of people, so that sometimes.” 

“I’m a little jealous,” Tormund glanced at him. “I’ve never been good at making friends like that.” 

“You’re kidding,” Jon laughed, “what about me? You practically bulldozed me into being friends.” 

“Special case,” came after a long second of silence.

“Anyway it’s not that many people. I guess I just hold on to the ones I’ve got.” 

“They’re loyal to you though, aren’t they? People that you’ve drawn to you.” 

“I-” Jon stopped. “I’m lucky, I guess.” 

“Not just luck,” Tormund spooled out more line so Jon did too. “You’d step on your own balls to help someone and then do it again backward to make sure they didn’t know you had.” 

“What’s that even mean?” he laughed, baffled. 

“Means you got the sister of your childhood bully knowing she can text you in the middle of the night when she needs to know she’s not alone,” Tormund wasn’t laughing, wasn’t even looking at him. “Means you got an ex that would murder someone that looked at you wrong. Got that Sam who looks at you like you hung the stars and named ‘em and his wife does just about the same. You save wolf pups and chubby brainancs and sea witches. Even your damn employees like you.

“You’re a Northerner, Jon, you don’t need a family name to have a family.” 

Jon stared at him, the speech making his throat thick as it went on. In a way it was Tyrion had said to him. What Gilly had said too. Even Arya. But it sounded so different that way. Maybe because the intent was different. 

It took him a second to figure out how to reel the line back in, but it bought him precious seconds to consider what he was about to do. In a way, it felt inevitable now. He knew now that Tormund had been building this bridge to him since the day they’d met and Jon had been on the other side, watching. Waiting. Waiting to make sure the bridge was sound and that he wouldn’t be dumped in the water. 

But there were no promises. No perfect engineering. There was only the reach across. So Jon reeled in his line and set down his pole. He took Tormund’s out of his hands and wedged it under his own abandoned chair so it wouldn’t fall into the ice. Tormund watched him, let him take it. 

“I’m sorry I’m slow. Ygritte always says I don’t know anything,” he wanted to take off his gloves, but even in moments like these he had the practicality of thirty winters in his head. He put his hands on Tormund’s shoulders, “I’m bad at reading people.” 

“Yes, I’d noticed,” Tormund looked up at him without tension, “but I’ve got time on my hands, Snow. Take your time.” 

Between both of their hats, hoods and scarves and Tormund’s beard, there wasn’t much space to maneuver. Jon still managed to kiss him. Tormund’s hands went around his waist, pulling him in. Jon half fell into his lap. It was a strange position, to be entangled with someone larger than him. But it wasn’t uncomfortable and it was certainly warmer. 

“I like you a lot,” Jon said quietly. 

“Good,” Tormund pulled him in closer. 

“I haven’t-” 

“Been with a man?” Tormund filled in when he fell short. “I figured.” 

“There’s only been Ygritte,” he admitted, “I don’t really do casual.” 

“Shocking,” Tormund snorted. “There’s nothing casual about you. You’re serious about which breakfast cereal you eat.” 

“Most of them are too sweet,” Jon grumbled. 

“I know, you’ve told me,” Tormund swept a hand up, tucking a curl that had escaped his hat and hood away. “Ever been attracted to a man before?” 

“I don’t really...” he bit his lower lip trying to think of how to word it, “I have to be really invested before I get attracted to someone. I never had celebrity crushes or anything like that. Always been weird that way, I guess.” 

“You just are the way you are. And I happen to like it.” 

They didn’t stay out on the ice much longer. The appeal of being somewhere that they could take off their coats overcame the desire to sit around waiting for fish to show up. They went back to Tormund’s house and Jon was re-introduced to the pleasure of making out on a couch. And maybe some of Tormund’s stories weren’t entirely made up because the man kissed like he did it for a living. 

Jon didn’t sleep in the guest room that night, abandoning the bed to Ghost. They didn’t have sex either, but Tormund drew him in and surronded him. It should’ve felt suffocating. 

It was perfect. 

Weirdly not much else changed. Tormund had always been all over him physically, and while Jon had registered that as comradery, it didn’t feel too different now that he knew the intent was flirtatious. They went for walks and Tormund told him wild stories. They met up with some of Tormund’s friends, other big men with big laughs and got very drunk. None of them gave Jon any trouble though they didn’t make much attempt to reach out either. It was a comfortable dismissal. 

He had time, like Tormund said. They’d change their minds about him or they wouldn’t. 

On the fourth morning of his stay, Ghost came into Tormund’s bedroom for the first time and rammed Jon in the gut with his nose so hard that he woke up sputtering. 

“Why?” he whined, cracking open one eye. 

Ghost whined and Jon sat up in bed. Or tried to. It took a good minute to wiggle out from Tormund’s sleepy grip. Ghost never whined. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Apparently satisfied that he had his attention, Ghost took off at a run and Jon was forced to hastily throw a coat over his pajamas, wedge his bare feet into his boots and take off through the snow after him. He heard a howl and the hair on the back of his neck stood up on end. It wasn’t Ghost’s howl. 

“Wait!” Jon shouted as if Ghost could still hear him. He was just following the faint paw prints Ghost barely left in the snow. He was stumbling, toes already going a little numb when he reached the ends of the woods just in time to see another wolf tackle Ghost into the snow. 

“NO!” 

The other wolf’s head snapped up. Ghost was still on his back...tongue lolling out the side of his mouth like an idiot. Jon stopped dead in his tracks, “Nymeria?” 

Ghost rolled back onto his feet and started scenting his sister, his tail going a thousand miles an hour. Jon closed his eyes, listening. 

“Going to put a knife in my back to prove a point, little sister?” he asked into the open air. 

“How do you always know?” a familiar voice grumbled. 

And then Jon was turning, and grabbing her up. Arya was strong. She could probably kill him fifty ways to Sunday, but she let him swing her up like she was still a teenager. They hugged like someone might try to pry them apart. Jon’s eyes prickled with tears. 

“What are you doing here?” he asked, finally setting her down. She was dressed for the weather, but unlike Jon she’d dressed to match the locals in dun and cream instead of his black work clothes. Her hair was a different color, an ashy blonde that washed her out. There were dark circles under her eyes and the shadow of a bruise on her chin. 

“I was in the area and heard a rumor about an ugly Southerner with a giant white dog,” she grinned up at him. “I thought it was a good guess that it was you.” 

“You have a tracker on my phone, don’t you?” 

“Why would I choose the phone? You turn it off too much.” 

“Is there a reason everyone is standing outside in their pajamas?” Tormund called out. He’d come halfway to the woods, coat hanging open over his naked chest. 

“My sister came to visit!” Jon shouted back. 

“I’ll go make coffee! Don’t freeze your balls off, Little Crow!” 

“Little Crow?” Arya mouthed at him. “Who the hell is that?” 

“Uh. It’s recent?” 

The nickname was recent too. Tormund had found the tattoo on Jon’s ribs, the crow on it’s branch done in detailed tiny strokes. It was tradition for Wall rangers to get a crow tattoo. But Jon had been sick the day the others had gone, wound up going to the shop by himself. The artist hadn’t asked his name when he’d come in. Wouldn’t take money. She had hair like fire and it fell in front of Jon’s face while she burned the lines into his body. It wasn’t until Sam proudly showed off the very simple outline that Jon realized she’d given him something entirely different. 

Tormund had traced the lines with his fingertips, the sketch of black on his skin and then with his lips. 

“You look like you’re going to explode,” Arya said, not without an edge of malicious glee. “I wanna meet him.” 

They trekked back down to the cabin, the direwolves departing into the woods. Doubtless Nymeria would nag Ghost into a proper hunt and Jon would be cleaning blood off a white muzzle in a few hours. 

“Coffee?” Tormund offered as soon as they were in the door. Ayra nodded once, her attention on the house, sweeping over the kitchen and living room. “Milk in the fridge if you want it, sugar is on the table. 

She let them doctor their mugs first, before taking her own and filling it to the rim with milk. 

“How’d you meet my brother?” Arya asked, the razor edge of demand just under the blank small talk tone. 

“Sword fighting,” Tormund seemed not to notice, content to sit in his pajama bottoms at his own table with this stranger. 

“Ygritte,” Jon explained and Arya nodded once, absorbing that. “He’s one of her advisors at school. He’s a professor of history.” 

“Is he?” Arya raised her eyebrows at Jon. “You used to nod off during history lessons.” 

“I didn’t,” he denied, eyes going wide. “You are such a brat.” 

“He pays attention now,” Tormund laughed. “What about you, Arya? What kind of student were you?” 

“A bad one,” she snorted. “Worse that Jon by a mile.” 

“We both would have rather been outside,” Jon shrugged. “And we had private tutors instead of formal school. It was worse. You couldn’t hide. Or well you could, but everyone would know you were. And find you in a hay bale.” 

“Don’t talk shit about my hay bale,” she grinned at him. “You just couldn’t fit behind it.” 

They spent the day out. Tormund took down some of his swords to show Arya after he’d gotten dressed and they took them to the clearing in the center of the village to practice. A few of the local children came out and Tormund tossed them sticks so they could mimic the adults. 

They ate lunch out by the lake where Jon determinedly did not look at the ice fishing hole. Arya peppered Tormund with questions and neatly turned away any that came to her. She sat through a family dinner with him, even drawing Ananda into a conversation about bone carving, something Jon didn’t want to ask why she knew about. 

“Think I’ll make an early night,” Tormund said easily when the crowd had left. He kissed Jon on the temple, “your sister can take the guest room, eh?” 

“Yeah,” Jon smiled at him, “I’ll be in soon.” 

“No rush, once I’m out, you won’t wake me coming in.” 

Then it was just him and her, on the homey couch in the warm little cabin. Arya tucked her legs up under the blanket to rest her chin on her knees. 

“Talk,” Jon put his feet beside hers under his own blanket. Not touching, but only barely. 

“You look cozy here,” she started. 

“Not about me. Not about any of the others. You, Arya.” 

“It was just a rough assignment,” she shrugged. “And I was nearby.” 

“How long was the assignment?” 

“Four months,” she frowned. “I’ve had longer.” 

“What about Gendry? And Vechtor?” 

“Vechtor and I don’t have a thing anymore,” she brushed her wrong colored hair out of her eyes. 

“Since when?” Jon frowned. They’d been with Arya for years, nearly as steadfast as Gendry. 

“Few weeks ago,” she mumbled. “They found someone else that wanted to be exclusive and figured it was worth a shot. So.” 

“Heartbreak sucks.” 

“C’mon Jon,” she sniffed, “I don’t have a heart left to break.” 

“Bullshit,” he said softly. “You know you could’ve just told me. I know you can’t hang out and I miss seeing your pointy face a lot, but you could call. I’d listen.” 

“You’re making it a bigger deal then it was,” she looked away. “Anyway, Gendry isn’t going anywhere. We’re meeting up in KL in two weeks. We’re partnered on this next one, so we’ll have a stretch together.” 

“How is he?” he asked, a mercy killing of the conversation that was apparently half dead when it started. 

“Good. Stressed. Weird, I don’t know,” she laughed weakly. “I think he wants to get out of the life.” 

“Oh, and do what?” 

“Teach, I think,” she said vaguely, “buy a house and a dog. Grow up.” 

“You’re a grown up,” he tapped his foot against hers once. “It doesn’t look the same on everyone, but you’ve been grown up since you were fifteen, Arya.” 

“I don’t feel it.” 

“I don’t either.” 

“You were never even a kid,” she scoffed. 

“I was,” he smiled at her. “What kind of adult tried to hide behind a too small hay bale?” 

“You weren’t though,” she kicked his shin. 

He didn’t bother arguing. He knew different. Maybe his way of being a kid had been more solemn, but he’d made a child’s mistakes and felt those childish feelings. 

“Hey,” she kicked him again, “so what are we going to do about Robb’s wedding?” 

“I have no idea what you mean,” he said with an eye roll. He knew she would know. 

“Look, I know Mom is being an asshole about Talisa, but it’ll break her heart if he does get married without her there.” 

Jon bit back the first five things that came to his head and settled on, “It’s Robb’s decision, Needle.” 

“It’s a dumb decision,” she snorted. “We’ve been split up enough, we don’t need them to be angry at each other.” 

“It’s not our call.” 

“Sure, but if I don’t tell her, she’ll be furious at me too.” 

“Maybe. Guess you have to decide who you want to be mad at you.” 

“That sounds like a shit decision,” she grumbled. 

He didn’t offer further advice, but he thought about it even as he climbed into bed beside Tormund. One heavy arm wrapped around him and drew him close. The sheets needed washing, but the smell of their intermingled sweat was almost comforting on it’s own. 

Arya only stayed another day. She didn’t say goodbye, and was just gone before dinner with a hasty thank you note left on the kitchen table for Tormund’s hospitality. 

“That’s more than I got last time,” he said wryly. 

“She’s a wild thing,” Tormund tucked the note into a drawer with a bundle of other papers. “But she loves you.” 

“I wish I could do more for her,” he said helplessly watching her handwriting disappear into the small ocean of other aging cards.

“Think on it,” Tormund kissed his temple. “There’s always something.” 

The note and Arya jar together in his head and then there was something he could do. If he could stomach it. He put the thought away for the day. Tormund has some meeting about the village that he has to go to and Jon can’t attend. He thought he might just stay in the house, but it felt like the bad kind of lazy. Instead he went out on a small mission to do something for someone else. 

“Hi Jon!” Lovey grinned when he found her Aunt’s house. She was outside, hitting a rug with what looked like a flat baseball bat. 

“Hi, got a minute?” 

“Sure!” 

She laughed when he admitted what he needed help with, but she agreed as long as he helped her through the laundry list of chores Auntie had left her with. 

“She always does this when I’m here,” she sighed. “Mom would have a fit if she knew, but then she’d have to come with me instead and I know she prefers to stay home.” 

“That’s a really nice thing you do for her,” Jon assured her. 

Lovey flushed scarlet and changed the subject back to their lesson at hand.  
The next day, he and Tormund drove to the nearest town to go grocery shopping. Jon pushed the cart as Tormund rambled through a potential menu, stopped to talk to every other person in the store, and he tried a sample of everything on offer. Anything particularly good, he fed to Jon too. And every person got an enthusiastic, 

“This is Jon Snow, my Southern boyfriend.” 

“You have a Northern boyfriend I should know about?” Jon was as bright red as Lovey had been by the third person. 

“Someone in every county,” Tormund laughed, then stopped very suddenly, in front of the oatmeal. “You know that I don’t though. But I might. Is that...” 

Jon stared at the friendly bright boxes. Did he care? He pictured Tormund with someone else. With Manya, maybe, who was still his friend and had been his lover on and off for years. He liked Manya. 

“I wish we’d had this talk before Arya left,” he muttered. Not that he really wanted to talk to his sister about sexual politics, but she might actually know something in this area and not laugh at his questions too much. 

“We don’t have to have it now,” Tormund plucked a box off seemingly at random and dropped it in the cart. 

“I think I’m good,” Jon decided. “I mean, I probably won’t. I don’t really have the space in my head for that, but I think I’m okay if you’ve got other people. Just when you’re with me, you’re with me. Does that make sense?” 

“I can do that,” Tormund reached out, cupped his cheek. Kissed him in front of the fucking oatmeal. “You change your mind, that’s okay too. We’ll deal with it when it comes up.” 

“Okay.” 

And it did feel okay. When they got back to the house, Tormund unloaded the groceries. Jon found a pen and paper and sat down at the kitchen table. 

He did remember how she opened letters, how seriously she’d taken correspondence. It felt like the right thing to do. Maybe it was from her that he’d learned to do it though that seemed impossible. Surely he’d remember that kind of lesson. 

_Dear_

The word stood out black on on the creamy paper. Growing up, he’d called her Mrs Stark like he was one of Robb’s visiting friends. They’d never discussed it, that was just how it fell out and no one ever suggested it should be different. 

She was nicer to Robb’s friends, generally. 

Except once. A memory he had locked away, rarely took out now, but sustained him when he was young. He’d gotten the same flu that all the other kids had, passing it around. The others got better and he got worse. Sweating through the sheets, unable to keep down water. There was talk of the hospital. The nanny had the others to care for, coming in and out before falling asleep in a chair herself. 

Then she’d come. She’d sat on Jon’s bed. He was in tears, so tired and unable to sleep and he wanted to hide from her, but he couldn’t quite make his hands reach for the blankets. She’d put her hand on his head. Her hand was cool. She tucked the blankets up around his shoulders. She stayed until he fell asleep, humming quietly. 

All Jon had wanted at that age was for her to be his mother.. Now he couldn’t imagine desiring such a thing. The woman that had only once ever tucked him into bed and showed him the slightest tenderness wasn’t worthy of the title. But he was damned if he was going on calling her Mrs Stark either. 

_Dear Catelyn,_ he finally wrote. 

_I hope this letter finds you well. I know we’re not usually pen pals and I don’t need you to reply to this. I found something out recently that I thought you deserve to know. I don’t know if it will come as a relief to you or if you’ll be angry or sad. I’ve been all of them the last few weeks._

_I am not Ned’s son. Not biologically. I don’t have any other father, so I hope you’ll understand that to me he’ll always be what I’ve got in that department. But he didn’t cheat on you. He didn’t have anything to do with my birth at all. I’m Lyanna’s son. Rhaegar Targaryen was my father. They were married, in secret. I don’t know any more than that and I don’t think it’s likely that I ever will. Their secrets went with him._

_I don’t know why he lied to you. I understand concealing the truth from a child, but it seems unusually cruel for the both of us that he deceived you. It’s not a cruelness that I think fit with his character, so I like to think that his intentions were good._

_All of that has made me think a lot about family. What it is and what it isn’t. Who is and who isn’t. I’ve never been a Stark. You made sure that I wasn’t and the great irony is that I was more a Stark the whole time then either of us knew. But it doesn’t matter now, does it? It’s just a name that I could claim as easily as Targaryen if I wanted. It doesn’t change who I am or our past._

_So I think now that you should forget about me if you haven’t already. I’m not your problem anymore, not even a little. Maybe this is the last communication we’ll ever have and I don’t think either of us will be worse off for that. But there is one last thing I want to say to you”_

_Ned lied to you, but you chose how to act on that lie from that day forward. You chose to be bitter and deliver that bitterness to me. To make sure I always knew my place a step down and away. It’s history now and mine to wrestle with.But please don’t give that bitterness to Robb. He just wants his mother to love him and approve of him, even now. It’s on you if you lose him too._

He tapped his pen against the bottom of the page, leaving a trail of tiny dots before he just put a dash and his name at the end. He folded it up very carefully, wrote the address to Winterfell under her title. Tormund gave him a stamp without question and directed him to the village mailbox. 

It was only when the box closed up, swallowing the pages up that Jon felt like he could breathe again. He zombie walked back to the house. 

“All right?” Tormund asked. 

“No,” he said tiredly and sat down beside him. “Tell me the one about the turtle and the star again. Please.” 

“Ah,” Tormund pulled him close, “there was once a turtle who was flipped onto his back by a bird, but the bird was in turn eaten before it could feast on the turtle's soft flesh. The turtle couldn’t right himself though he tried all day. But when night came, he saw the stars for the very first time. There was one just over his head that seemed to shine more brightly and the turtle fell in love with the star.” 

Jon closed his eyes, laughing when the story got weirdly raunchy in the middle as almost all of Tormund’s private re-tellings did. Fuck Catelyn Stark and her chilly castle in the middle of the tundra. Maybe he was too old for a story and for someone to pull the blanket up around his shoulders at night, but it didn’t seem to bother Tormund in the least. How could he not share this man with the world if he wanted to be shared? Everyone deserved to be held close like they were precious and told about a turtle trying to dick down a celestial entity if they wanted it. 

They had sex that night and Jon got rid of whatever shreds of virginity Ygritte had left behind in her wake. In the morning, he ached and smiled about it which was a problem because Tormund frankly informed him, 

“I’m morally obligated to kiss you every time you smile like that, Little Crow.” 

So Jon spent most of the day corralled for long slow kisses and he couldn’t find the will to complain even though he’d meant to get another lesson from Lovey that morning and never quite made it out the door. 

He felt lighter, not just from the sex, but like he’d dropped a weight into that mailbox that he’d carried for years without knowing. He waited for it to come back. It seemed like it should. Like something so simple as putting things into words and sending them away shouldn’t cure anything. 

It didn’t come back. Not while Tormund showed him off like a prized pony at a raucous drunken dance at the end of the week celebrating something Jon forgot as soon as they showed up. Not while Lovey exchanged lessons with him. Not while they ate dinner or went into the woods and Tormund taught him how to find frozen fall berries, still waiting to be picked on low bushes. 

It was just good. Even at the end of his time there, knowing he was leaving, it didn’t return. 

“I’ll be back at the college in a few weeks,” Tormund cleared his throat, his eyes a little wet looking as he walked Jon back to his car. Ghost was following sedately behind them, Lovey’s hand resting on one of his shoulders. 

“I know,” Jon smiled at him, “call me when you’re back in cell range, okay?” 

“Stop that,” Tormund leaned down to kiss him. “My daughter is right there, you harlot.” 

“What?” Jon choked on a laugh. “What did you just call me?” 

“You heard me,” Tormund kissed him again. “Tart.” 

“Fuck you,” he put his arms around his neck and pressed their foreheads together. _”Tormund, I’ll miss you, my star.”_

“Little Crow,” Tormund’s eyes went wide and behind his back Lovey gave him a thumb’s up, so he knew he’d gotten it right enough. “Did you learn the Old Tounge so you could flirt with me?” 

“Uh huh,” Jon grinned at him. 

Poor Lovey probably had to avert her eyes, but Jon was thrilled with Tormund’s show of approval. 

“You’re not allowed to leave,” Tormund muttered. “What’s down there that’s better than me?” 

“Oh so that nice speech about my found family was just talk? My people are there,” he reminded him. 

“Fuck your people,” Tormund scoffed, but released him. 

Jon hugged Lovey goodbye and thanked her. Promised he’d be back to see her goats. That felt like a promise he could keep. 

Technically, he should go straight home. Unpack. Fill his fridge and meal prep for the week. He’d be back to work in the morning. Instead he let the car take him where he wanted to go. 

Ygritte opened the door with a disgruntled expression that didn’t entirely ease when she saw him, 

“What are you doing here?” she yawned, wide, jaw cracking. 

“I brought you things,” he held up the extra bag of treats he’d gotten at the grocery store with Tormund. “And I missed you.” 

She took the bag and looked into it, a smile creeping over her face, despite herself. He would never stop thinking she was beautiful, “There’s seed bread in here! I love seed bread.” 

“I know,” he smiled at her. 

“You can come in,” she decreed. 

She made the strong tea he’d brought too and they ate seed bread with goat cheese while he told her everything. 

“I can’t believe you fucked my advisor,” she groaned. “And that you took so long to get around to doing it!” 

“I thought it was romantic,” he couldn’t stop smiling. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t apologize,” she flicked a seed at him. “I can’t believe you found a new regular thing before I did.” 

“Sometimes a turtle gets flipped on his back,” Jon shrugged. 

“Do not use my own people’s stories against me, I hate you.” 

He told her about finding out about his mother too. The letter he’d wrote to Catelyn. She high-fived him and poured a shot of whiskey in his tea. 

“Bout fucking time, Snow. Good job.” 

Then he listened to her talk about her job at the library, asked her about her course work and her wood carving lessons. He thought about Tormund’s big speech and how he made it seem so special. Jon didn’t know how someone couldn’t listen to Ygritte explain the appeal of a knife against wood and not enjoy it. 

“I have to go,” he said reluctantly. 

“So what? You’ll be back,” she shoved at him until he was halfway to the door. “Leave me in my celibate peace.” 

He thought his house would feel different when he got back. But the woods opened their arms to him and he stepped back inside with a grateful sigh. There was a light on, so he wasn’t too surprised to find Sam reading on his couch when he came in. 

“Hi,” Jon shucked off his coat. “Everything okay?” 

“Figured you might not want the house iced out when you got back,” Sam shrugged. “If I knew you were going to be this late, I might’ve just started the fire and gone home.” 

“Sorry, stops on the way.” 

“Nah, the quiet is good once and a while. How was the trip?” 

Jon sat down next to him, “It was awesome.” 

“Uh huh,” Sam glanced at him and away. “How’s your boyfriend?” 

“Good,” Jon didn’t bother denying it. “We weren’t before I left, you know. I wasn’t holding out on you.” 

“I know. You could if you wanted to. You don’t owe me your life story.” 

“Sam, you literally gave me my life story. If not you, who?” 

“You didn’t come out to me.” 

“Oh,” Jon stared at his feet. “I didn’t know myself, I guess.” 

“How do you not know that?” 

“Sam,” Jon gave him his biggest saddest expression, “you’ve known me for years. I’m a fucking idiot.” 

They laughed together and talked for a long time. Sam wound up sleeping on the couch. It reminded Jon of Tormund sleeping on the couch all those months ago. He curled up in his bed, touching the unused second pillow. 

Life went on. The weight didn’t come back, but the freedom of vacation did vanish. Jon went back to work, back to soothing egos and smoothing over spats, and filling out time sheets. Back to talking to agitated hikers and answering phones. When he’d been back a week, Robb called, 

“Hey, man,” he sounded subdue, a thousand miles away. 

“What’s up?” Jon stepped outside of his office. Winter was in full clench, but for a few minutes the cold air felt good on his overheated skin. His desk was too close to the radiator. 

“Did you say something to Mom?” 

“Sort of,” Jon frowned. “Not about you and Talisa though, if that’s what you’re asking. It was about me.” 

“Oh,” the silence stretched uncomfortably, “she said some weird shit on the phone.” 

“What kind of weird shit?” 

“Just. Things. About regrets and stuff. She told me that if I loved Talisa then I should marry her.” 

“Can’t disagree with her there.” 

“Yeah, we talked about having the ceremony at Winterfell. And she agreed. So. Sorry. Courthouse wedding is off,” Robb’s laugh was stilted. 

“I have to tell you something,” Jon realized. “But I...can we meet for lunch or something? It’s not bad. It’s nothing that’ll change your life. Just it’s important. To me.” 

“Sure, yeah, of course,” Robb exhaled. “It’s not that you’re bi, right? Because Arya told me about your boyfriend.” 

“She is such a little snitch,” he said fondly. He’d be mad if he hadn’t given her full permission to tell everyone. He knew she’d enjoy having something not about her to spread through the family. Throw Bran off the scent a little of her own hurts. “But no, it’s not about that.” 

“Can you tell me about him then?” 

“About Tormund?” Jon blinked in surprise. 

“Yeah, Jon. About the guy you drove like ten hours to see and never even mentioned to me,” and there was an edge of anger there. “Your whole life is just...I don’t know anything about you sometimes.” 

A crow cackled somewhere in the trees. Jon searched the treeline for it, made out it’s form in the growing shadows. 

“You don’t ask,” Jon said finally, the words catching in his throat. 

“Because you never say anything when I do,” Robb contended, but it’s defensive and hard and they both know that they’re both guilty. “The whole time with Ygritte, I only met her by accident.” 

“You talked about her like she was...,” he stumbled. Long training would suggest he hold his tongue, but he had sloughed it off, felt free to say, “Fuck, Robb, you never liked her before you met her. Talked a lot of shit about Free Folk. Why would I put her through that?” 

“....shit, Jon,” Robb sounded punched out, “I’m not Mom.” 

“No one said you were,” he wanted this conversation to be over. “But you’ve got her words in your head just like I do.” 

“Do you still want to tell me whatever it is?” It’s plantive and Jon huffed a breath out, watching the dragon’s lick of smoke as it hit the freezing air. 

“Yeah, I do.” 

“I’ll come up to you. Now.” 

“It’s not that dramatic...” 

Maybe it was. Jon had lost perspective. And it didn’t matter, Robb was set on a course and that meant it was happening. It was a good thing he’d already started dinner in the slow cooker before he left for work because only got home a few minutes before Robb showed up. 

“Did you go ninety all the way here?” Jon asked as he came in the door. 

“I had a lot of thinking to do and I do it best when I drive fast,” Robb shrugged. They stared at each other. Ghost padded through the kitchen and stood between them. “Hey buddy.” 

Ghost huffed and headbutted Robb in the knee until he gave the wolf his due. The sad smile as he did softened Jon up a little more. Grey Wind had been gone for years, but Robb had never replaced him. 

They took off their coat and shoes by the front door. They had the same boot stand at both their houses, gifts from Sansa with their initials monogrammed in the wood. Jon had been shocked when his had arrived in the mail, the holiday season after her return to Winterfell. The first holiday gift she’d given him since she was ten and had been forced by good manners to embroider him a handkerchief since she’d made one for everyone else. 

He liked the boot stand better. 

“Can you just tell me,” Robb asked as soon as their socked feet headed for the kitchen. “I don’t want to dick around about it.” 

“Ned isn’t my father.” It was shockingly easy to say. Maybe because he’d practiced so much accidentally. Telling Tormund and Ygritte, who didn’t really care except for what it meant for him. Arya, who understood it, but who had never faltered in sisterly loyalty to him even when they were apart. 

“What do you mean?” Robb pulled out a kitchen chair and sat. Jon sat down across from him. Explained about the DNA test, the documents. Showed him the photo of the wedding certificate. 

“I don’t get it,” Robb stared at the picture. “Why did he lie?” 

“To keep me safe, I guess. Because of how it was back then,” Jon sat back in his chair. “Maybe she made him promise or maybe she died before she could tell him anything. I don’t know.” 

“He risked Mom leaving him over it. She nearly did, I think.” 

“He did.” 

“You’re really calm about this.” 

“I wasn’t for weeks.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” It’s an echo of the phone conversation, but in person it’s worse because he can see the pain on Robb’s face. He’s not Sam. This isn’t something they can laugh off. 

“Because I wanted you to be my brother a little longer.”

“You’re still my brother!” Robb’s fist on the table startled them both and they stared at it like a gun had gone off. “Sorry. Just, you can’t decide that for me.” 

“I can’t,” he agreed, “but we’re barely friends anymore. We used to be friends. But I wasn’t even your first choice of best man, not really. If Theon...” 

“That’s bullshit,” Robb frowned. “I would’ve always chosen you over him. Can you imagine the bachelor party if I let him throw it?” 

“It would’ve been...colorful,” Jon allowed. 

“Do you really think we’re not friends?” 

“No. Yes. I don’t know. We grew up. We moved apart. And we catch up and it’s nice, but it’s not like it was. It’s not anyone’s fault. It happens to everyone. Even actual siblings, I’ve heard. How much time do you spend talking to Rickon and Bran these days?” 

“That’s different,” Robb protested. “It was me and you. All those years. We had each other’s backs.” 

“As much as we were allowed,” Jon agreed. 

“What does that mean?” 

“Robb,” he wanted to go out. This felt like a walking conversation, but Robb was clearly weighted down, settled in his chair, “you know what I mean. You couldn’t protect me and I couldn’t always stand between them and you. It was how it was.” 

“Mom-” 

“Robb, from the bottom of my heart, I cannot tell you how few fucks I give about your mother now,” he offered it up with a bent smile. “I’m glad she’s going to go easier on you about Talisa. I think you deserve a real wedding. But she’s not my fucking problem, she’s not my mother. Ned spent years making excuses for a problem it turned out he didn’t even have to have made.” 

“So that’s it? You’re just...not my brother anymore according to you? Because of decisions they made?” 

“No,” Jon sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “You’re not- I don’t care why it happened the way it happened. It just did. And if we’re still brothers, then good. Great. I love you. But we have to act like it. Both of us. It can’t be something just exists because it does.” 

“Fine,” Robb frowned at him. “So what does that look like?” 

“I dunno. Let’s meet for lunch sometimes? I’ll promise to answer questions if you promise to ask them.” 

“I can do that,” some of the thunder cleared from Robb’s brow. “You’ll...you’ll still stand up for me at the wedding?” 

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” he blinked, “if I didn’t just convince you I shouldn’t with all of that.” 

“It sounds like you needed to say it,” Robb snorted, “come on, are you going to feed me or not?” 

They talked more over lunch, and it did feel good. Felt like maybe they could go back or at least move forward on sturdier ground. 

“You should tell everyone else too. Or I can or Arya, if you want,” Robb said eventually as he went to pull his boots back on. “Arya knows, right?” 

“Yes, I mean. Sorry, but she-” 

“It’s fine,” Robb laughed, clapped him on the back. “We all know who your favorite was.” 

And Robb wasn’t wrong, so Jon wrote Rickon an email that night. It was perfunctory, but he’d never been close with him really. Bran already knew, but Jon wrote him too, something a little scolding about spilling the beans to Arya, but otherwise neutral. 

He considered emailing Sansa too. But he thought about what he’d said to Robb and he didn’t exactly hate having sisters either. 

“Stark Consulting, Sansa speaking,” her phone voice was pleasant, but firm. It told you from the first moment that she had boundaries and she would keep them. 

“It’s Jon,” he sat down on the couch. 

“Oh! I should’ve checked the caller ID, sorry,” she sighed. “Crazy day. Is everything okay?” 

“Yeah, it’s fine. I just found something out that I thought you should know.” 

It got easier each telling, he realized. Easier to keep the facts dry and his voice steady. 

“Wow,” she said when he was done. She’d barely made a noise during the recital. “How are you doing with all that?” 

“I yelled at Robb today, but otherwise, okay?” 

“He needs to be yelled at sometimes,” she said softly, in a voice that implied she’d never yelled a day in her life which he always believed even though he knew it wasn’t true. “We could start a rotational chart.” 

“I can take the first week of the month,” he joked weakly. 

“I miss Dad.” 

It was really the last thing he expected and he sat with it for a long moment. “Yeah. Me too.” 

“There’s so many questions we never had answered,” she sighed. “All this unresolved nothingness.” 

“Was he a good father? For you?” he stared sightlessly down at the coffee table. 

“Most of the time. Or I thought so, but I...he took me there. Left me there. And he paid for with his life. With a part of mine. To buy what? I still don’t even know what politics were being played. I never will now.” 

He had distantly hated her at one point. Beautiful snotty Sansa, who treated him as her mother taught her. Who walked like she didn’t have to acknowledge gravity. When he’d seen her again and she’d hugged him on the steps as though she wasn’t a mass of bruises, all he’d wanted to do was murder every person who had ever hurt her. Maybe that was what being a brother meant sometimes. 

“All those secrets. Let’s just not do that, huh?” 

“Good idea,” she snorted, a graceless noise that made him smile. “Thanks for calling.” 

“Yeah, of course. Sorry-” 

“Don’t. Let’s not apologize for inherited garbage,” she decided. “And in the interest of not keeping secrets...” 

“Yeah?” 

“You have to promise not to tell anyone that I told you first,” she said sternly. “That’s...also like a secret, but it’s a harmless one, right? That’s just peacekeeping.” 

“Right,” he agreed. 

“I’m pregnant.” 

“That’s great news!” he was suddenly grinning. He had no interest in babies, could barely be cajoled to hold Little Sam when there was no other choice. But he knew Sansa wanted it. “Rowan must be over the moon.” 

“He’s thrilled,” she agreed, giddy now. “I’m going to be someone’s Mom.” 

“You’ll be great at it.” 

“Thanks, Jon. Come down South one of these days, huh? You should see the house in the summer bloom.” 

He didn’t promise, but he didn’t say no either. 

It was a lot of talking with people. Jon vowed to wrap himself up in bed and hibernate until he had to go back to work. 

So of course his phone rang just as his head hit the pillow. 

“What?” he grumbled. 

“Ah, there’s the voice of my sweetheart,” Tormund boomed. “Long day?” 

“Mhm,” he closed his eyes, “are you home?” 

“Nearly, nearly. Ass is numb, usually a sign that I’m close.” 

“Can I come see you tomorrow?” he felt suddenly not so peopled out after all. 

“Ah, maybe sooner,” Tormund sounded....embarrassed. 

“Sooner? Are you..” 

“I’m about five minutes from your door. I thought I could go back to my empty apartment and pretend I’m going to unpack or I could crawl into bed with you and see if you’d take pity on my sore back muscles.” 

“I can do that,” Jon sat up in bed, looked for his slippers and went to his front door. 

The road winding up to Jon’s house was long, but flat. He could just faintly make out the pinprick lights of an approaching cars, “What if I’d already been asleep?” 

“Then I would’ve bellowed outside your bedroom window like a moose in heat.” 

“What a wake up call.” 

Jon stayed on the porch, on the phone until Tormund emerged from his truck. 

“Little Crow,” Tormund hugged him and Jon wanted to drown in it. 

He didn’t tell him about Robb or Sansa or the thousand little things since they’d last spoke. Tormund didn’t offer any stories. They collided into each other like opposing forces of nature and his bed took the brunt of it, the frame threatening to splinter. 

Afterwards, naked and sticky in the moonlight, Tormund lay his hand right over his tattoo, 

“You should get another one.” 

“Of what?” Jon turned to face him. 

“A turtle,” Tormund grinned, “going slow and steady.” 

“Asshole,” he laughed and ducked his head under Tormund’s chin. “I think I’ve caught up now.” 

“Yeah,” solid arms wrapped around him. “You have.” 

_Eight Months Later_

She was beautiful. Jon had sort of known that from the pictures they’d exhcanged through email. Her hair was silky and nearly white blond, eyes so blue they seemed to glow unnaturally. When she smiled, it was the sun parting clouds. 

“You sure you’re related?” Tormund asked in what he thought was a whisper. He was the worst whisperer. 

“Yes,” Jon stared through the window of the coffee shop. She hadn’t noticed them yet. She was talking to her son, the boy barely a year had one hand curled around a lock of her hair. Her husband, a mountain of a man sat beside her, an arm curved around her shoulders. “But I think we got very different ends of gene pool.” 

Daenerys looked up, caught his eye. Her smile was knowing. Jon stepped inside, Tormund at his back. She stood, handing her son to her husband and opening her arms to him, 

“It’s good to meet you, Jon,” she embraced him. She smelled amazing, some expensive sweet perfume that made him dizzy. 

“Nice to meet you too.” 

They made small talk over iced coffees. Her husband was mostly silent. Daenerys had mentioned that he understood Westerosi, but still had trouble speaking it. His gaze was intense and it would’ve made Jon uncomfortable if Tormund hadn’t immediately launched into a monologue aimed at the poor man about the quality of the coffee and how it compared to every other coffee he’d ever had. 

“Where did you find him?” Daenerys laughed, it sounded like bells. 

“Oh, you know. Lots of interesting things in the North,” Jon grinned. He had a hand on Tormund’s knee, not even sure when it got there. 

“So it would seem. Maybe I should visit you one day. Up by the Wall. I’ve heard it’s cold.” 

“If you ask him, that’s not the real North,” Jon grinned. 

“It’s far more North then I’ve ever been. Drogo and I are desert flowers. We’re as South as they go. ” 

Jon tried to imagine the mountain beside her as a flower and decided that was between them, but he knew from photos they did thrive in their desert, their home a thing of beauty. 

“Jon is as North as they come,” Tormund said suddenly, turning to them. 

“Can I get that in writing?” Jon’s turned to stare at him. “Are you feeling all right?” 

“No,” Tormund kissed his forehead. “But it’s still true.” 

“You two are cute,” Daenerys was smiling at him when he turned back to her. “I’m happy that you’re happy. When you first reached out to me...I don’t know. It brought up a lot of things. I was worried you’d be like something I wanted to forget.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault,” she pat his hand. “And I was proven wrong anyway.” 

In the end, she was a lovely woman. Gorgeous, smart and funny. 

And Jon felt almost nothing when they said goodbye. 

“Was it everything you hope?” Tormund asked as they got back in the car. 

“No one died, so it wasn’t the worst case scenario,” he got into the passenger seat. It was hot out. They’d met in KL and it was creeping to the height of summer. Tormund jerked on the air condiditiong. “It’s nice. To know her.” 

“No big revelations? No fundamental shifts?” 

“No,” Jon rolled his eyes, “Come on. I know I got a little worked up-” 

“A little?” 

“Thanks, yes, you’ve been very supportive and not at all making ruthless fun of me all week.” 

“Aw, Little Crow,” Tormund started the truck, pulling out heedlessly into traffic. He lazily flipped off the driver behind him. City driving was not his strong suit, but it was entertaining to watch, “you were all in your head about it. I told you, she’s just a person. A supernaturally hot person, but a person.” 

“I didn’t notice. On account of being related to her,” he snorted. 

“Didn’t stop a lot of people through history,” Tormund took a breath, “did I ever tell you about the-” 

“Twins, yeah,” Jon put his feet up on the dashboard and his hand back on Tormund’s thigh as he muscled the truck across two lanes of traffic to get on the highway. “Tell me again anyway.” 

_So listen, Little Crow, that turtle learned to climb trees and mountains. He conned birds so they flew him through the night sky. He walked across the world. Turtles live a long time, this one even longer than most, but he never got far enough to reach his star. And so what? His whole turtle life, he’d filled with adventure. He’d seen things no one could see. Maybe his star loved him, maybe it was a cold dead rock in the sky. Near the end of his life, he was back where he’d been born. And he told all his stories to the young turtles there. He found an old lady turtle who loved his stories. So when he died, the rest of the turtles promised to tell his story forever. Maybe one of them even learned to talk the speech of people, so we could know it too._

_The point? Who says there has to be a point, Jon? Huh? Sometimes a story is just about a turtle and a star. Sometimes a story is just for a story’s sake._

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this in February after a few requests to know how Jon and Tormund met. I had it half finished when I left work for the day already knowing I might not be back in on Monday, but not understanding the scope of what was to come. This past week we were asked to start returning to our office and I finally found the way to finish the story. 
> 
> I hope all of you are somewhere safe and comfortable right now. I hope the people you love are too.


End file.
